


Oh Merciful Descent

by vashnic



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3397736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vashnic/pseuds/vashnic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blindness. The events of Advent Children diverge, then return full circle. Slight SephirothCloud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Merciful Descent

**Author's Note:**

> Written long ago for a prompt on LJ.

-o0o-

Cloud grips the hilt of his Buster Sword tightly, one hand flush against the guard and the other farther towards the pommel, and shifts back, adjusting his stance minutely lower—

_—“C’mon Cloud, you can get down—!”_

—and lunges.

“ _Little fool.”_

The opponent in his mind dodges and whips his own sword up to counter. Better. Switching his attack mid-stride, Cloud can just about feel their weapons grind off each other as he dodges left and swings his sword back to guard.

Dust, kicked up by his movements, comes up to suffocate the sweat tracks on his face, and a bead of moisture threatens to trickle into his eye, but he can’t afford the time to wipe it away, not when the other darts forward in a snap of movement. Blows rain down like a hailstorm, and Cloud’s arms burn with the effort of simply warding off the slashes and thrusts that elegantly carve through the silence around them.

Faster, Cloud, more, or you will fail, again.

Another shriek of metal; it reverberates through his skull, his chest, leaves his heart a little more strained as it beats. He can almost see his opponent grin down over the cross of their trembling swords. Bastard.

“ _You’re never quite enough, are you… Cloud?”_

Cloud bares his teeth, tastes dirt and the tang of blood where he’s bitten through, and shoves back, forceful enough that he doesn’t quite feel the resistance of a solid body give way in front of him. A tight swing that drives the other back—he finally gets some room to actually move—and Cloud doesn’t let his opening go to waste. Parry. Swipe. Feint. He keeps his weapon in a blur of strikes that split the air. They land hard. Fast.

His opponent falls back. Cloud can nearly see a gleam of surprise— _f_ _ear?—_ ghost to life in those arrogant eyes.

Much better.

Exhausted, tattered, but he tastes the thrill of control, of seizing the upper hand for once in his sham of an opposition- solace like flowers before a tomb, and he savors it with a rigid smile before calling on his last reserves.

His sword thrums with taut energy, and Cloud hitches a breath in readiness before-

Pain explodes in his arm. It lances up his shoulder, his neck, reaches his skull and settles: a snake that drags its fangs after the bite, and his illusion is shattered beyond repair when he finally stops convulsing long enough to lever himself up with his blade. He clutches his side tightly, protectively, and he can feel every thick drop of alien blood leisurely pooling back though his veins.

A controlled, tight intake of air through his mouth. The ache recedes—grudgingly, not without a last mocking effort to remind him—

_—as if he could forget; as if he could ever even think about—_

—that leaves behind tremors like aftershocks in its wake.

He opens his eyes to nothing.

“Cloud!”

Running footsteps, muffled and concerned on the ground. He turns towards them, tries to wipe off the worst of his grime and sweat before she reaches him. The warmth of her hands flutter over his brow, his vest, before settling to gingerly press against his forearm. She smells faintly of some vanilla soap—she’s used that same brand since he’s ever known her.

“…You _know_ you shouldn’t be doing this on your own.” Tifa’s voice is quiet; he can hear the way her lips are drawn and pressed thin.

He wishes that he could see her face.

“I’m sorry.”

He really is.

A sigh. “You say that every time, Cloud...” Apology given, accepted, and nothing is much expected to change. He reaches out to touch her; she lets him, and stays unmoving as his fingers gently find her hair and trace the contours of her mouth. She’s smiling now, just a little faded at the edges.

There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her safe.

Tifa murmurs under her breath, and he manages not to jerk away when the wash of a Poisona spell settles over him like a fine net. It helps, some.

Not enough.

“I… thanks, Tifa.”

Resigned exasperation. “What are your friends for?” He’s gotten better at ignoring the small catch in her voice, and tries to show how much she means. But he’s not good at that- he’s never been good at that. Cloud considers his past, present, and future only in terms of what he’s going to lose, what he’s going to keep, and what he’s already lost. The last is his only constant.

So he has to try, fail, try again, until something changes.

“Cloud, you have no idea what you…” She trails off. Her arms wrap around his chest in a tight squeeze, before she pushes him brusquely away and informs him that if he’s going to train himself to death, she might as well get some practice, too.

The swish of her skirt fades as she jogs out to grab her work gloves from the bar, and Cloud stays unmoving until he hears the door click open and shut behind her.

Three paces to the right, nine big strides back. He takes small, shuffling steps until he’s able to find the small depression in the center of the clearing. His hands settle and twist into their proper hold on the sword, muscles shiver in weary protest, but raise it firmly to standard guard, just as he was taught.

“ _Lookin’ good, Cloud! Now if you could only get your footwork…”_

He crouches.

“ _The way you fight—Cloud… you remind me of someone.”_

Nothing, he thinks. No one.

_Deliberate, cruel. “Cloud.” Someone he thought long dead._

-o0o-

Cloud sits on the edge of the bed, very still, fingers splayed wide over the loose weave of the blankets, and tries to see more than the sliver of light that his room has become. If he focuses on one small chunk, he thinks that he can see it waver a little less than the others.

_Something about the shifting anatomy of the lens and the little receptors behind it._

There. He can make out the shape of the table in the far corner. And the pale blocks of color that are probably Marlene’s drawings against the wall. Rubbing his eyes seems to help, and he presses the palms of his hands against them. The skin around them is tight, raw. They ache.

_Incompatible with human nerve arrangements._

He doesn’t want to be here when Tifa and the kids get home, doesn’t want them to see, doesn’t want them to worry, but he doesn’t trust himself to guide his motorcycle through the wide expanse of concrete and desert to Aeri—to the church, let alone navigate Edge’s tight streets. So he hides himself, tucked away in the rooms above Seventh Heaven, and waits.

_Elliptical, that was the shape._

His world has narrowed to a gash of bright paint on black canvas, and he’s never had luck with keeping his colors vivid and fresh. They always fade before long, but never before the full, pining realization of what he’s failed to protect.

The air in the room is stifling; he pushes himself off the bed and remembers to pause, carefully feel out for the chair to the side before finding the window. Opening it is a simple as a thought—forcing his lungs to expand, contract, take in the cold wind that carries the smell of smog and soot and people, above all, is harder.

Then he sees his reflection, abnormally clear and sharp— _Mako light_ , they called it—in the glass panes. Vacant circles constrict to narrow, slitted pupils; the last of the red in the wallpaper turns to grey. There's more streaks of green in his irises than blue, now, but neither is as strong as they should be. His arm pulses in time to match soundless, soft laughter.

_Odd that it should crop up now, really; they hadn’t seen eyes like that since Hojo’s pet projects and General S—_

The window shatters under his fists, and his world darkens once more.

-o0o-

“You’re the one that abandoned Mother.”

There’s a grin in that voice, manic and spiteful. Cloud keeps his back to the metal beams and tries to remember how many steps to safety he has to take. Out to the railing, down the many stairs, take care not to plummet off the edge, all without landmarks to guide—like a nursery rhyme the other children used to chant when they tumbled across the town courtyard. Never may I lie again or strike me blind without hope of mend.

He holds his sword like a shield, high and tight to his front. A defensive stance, used when unsure of the current situation or when the opponent has strategic advantage in the match. The echoes and groans of the building make it hard to pinpoint anything; his eyes take care of the rest. Pretty to think that any effort of his will make a difference, but he only needs to stretch their time until the ones who are actually able to fight, to save, manage to find their charges. He hopes that Marlene and Denzel stay alive.

A quiet groan pours out from somewhere to his left—Rufus. Their promise to the Turks stays kept, for now.

“Come, Brother, did you think I wouldn’t know?”

Too high, too young, but the creak of leather and the glide of steel on steel sound familiar—he imagines a figure from the blackness to match the noises; it forms much too easily than it should. Fragments are gradually piecing together; they will form into an entirety that he doesn’t think he can break. Cloud braces his legs against the wood and pipes of the floor.

“Know what?”

Pealing amusement. He’s moved closer. “How you betrayed us all,” says Kadaj, and Cloud twists backwards to avoid the sudden hiss of air.

Twin stings of pain skim across his cheek—a dual blade. It isn’t as it should be. Cloud counters in a rough flurry of cuts through the dark. He can’t afford precision—he has trouble remembering when he could.

“Hnn.”

Contemplative. Cloud stills, quiets his breathing, tries to gauge where next to block and hit. There’s nothing but the whine of the high breeze through the rafters and the rustle of his own clothing to help him, so he stays loose, moving, and the blow that should have run him through cracks into his shoulder armor.

He dives under, moving on instinct and desperation, and gets a satisfying gasp when he feels something soft yield beneath his blade. Recoil, then Cloud’s on his knees, doing his best the keep the blooming tear of hurt on his forehead from spreading. He sucks in a rash breath and feels razor edges inch across his neck.

Kadaj’s voice is angry now, petulant.

“Deceitful, selfish—Mother was right to punish you all.” Cloud can hear him shifting restlessly. “When all our brothers and sisters reunite, we’ll be whole again. She’ll be free. Then you’ll pay…”

“Reunite…”

Blood trickles cold down his vest.

“Of course, Brother, didn’t you know?” The sword against his neck digs a little deeper. Kadaj drips the next words into his ear. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the signs.” Answering flare like blistering toxin in his arm. Cloud arches his spine back with a snap, doesn’t let his cry get any farther than his throat.

Laughter, joyful and dark.

“See? Mother listens to me.” Childlike conceit. “Even when the others can’t hear her, I do. I’m the one she gives her orders to. I’m the one who carries out her will—and it’s almost done.”

The will of the Catastrophe. It is only a pale suggestion of the original, a stray ripple from the core of the storm, but it is enough. Cloud twists his body to face Kadaj’s voice.

“And what will happen then?”

He’s humored.

“’Then’?” Kadaj patiently recites, “The Planet will beg for mercy as it’s ravaged by Mother’s chosen.”

Another try, and Cloud tilts his head back to imagine what the eyes staring down at him actually see.

“…So you’re just remnants after all.”

“—What?”

“Mother’s chosen…” Her favored son, his forever nightmare. “Jenova wouldn’t choose you.”

Not when she could have- nobody would. Poor fragments. So close to a failure, still better than a failed experiment. A snarl makes him shy back; the gloved hand fisted in his hair makes him stay.

“You say that so carelessly—” Hatred, thickly layered over wondering trepidation “—I wonder if you truly understand what you’re talking about.”

Cloud feels the silent, merciful buzz of his PHS. Their time is almost up.

“Regardless of who Mother chooses, you traitors will all meet the same end. Even if she picks _him—_ ” Jealousy, adoration “—over us all, we’ll still destroy your world and take back your Promised Land for our own. I’ll be laughing down at you, Brother, as he takes everything you’ve ever touched and slaughters it, breaks it—” a harsh whisper that spits in his face “— _burns it_ all to the ground.”

Contented pleasure.

Cloud laughs, high and jarring, into that shapeless voice.

“ _Shut up!”_

“You’re nothing—“ Cloud uses every splinter of disdain, malice, pride he can remember to lace his words.

“—but a mediocre copy—”

The faintest smell of gunpowder;

“—and you’ll crumble to a thousand pieces before this is over—”

he hears the whisper of a cloak.

“—because there’s only one pulling your strings, and _he_ doesn’t give a damn about his puppets. ”

Gunshots and shouts splatter through his hearing. Time to run, soldier.

He jams his elbow back and scrambles up, lungs burning, rolls away to avoid the next attack. Find the ledge, find the exit- he’s disoriented, and there’s no time.

He leaps, feels the ground disappear beneath him, and falls for moments into nothing.

This time, there’s someone to catch him.

“Vincent! What’s the—“

“The children are fine.” Stagnant pause. “…The remnants have Jenova.”

Cloud imagines what it would be like to live in a world where he didn’t have to make impossible trades.

-o0o-

“Tell me, Cloud, do you like my gift?”

He snaps open his eyes, and his world is once again tinted all the colors of the rainbow- he can see that the materia shattered across the floor is watered green, the dying flames along the rubble sputter dull ember, and Sephiroth is still the only one in his view.

His hands slide across the grip of his sword, guard and pommel both, and the texture of his gloves meshes tight.

“Here for the last of your Mother?”

The cold, crawling up through his arm, urges _yes_ in stabs and needles.

“No,” Sephiroth purrs, attentive, dangerous, and the ground rearranges again. Cloud darts forward with rage clear in his eyes, and Sephiroth shifts aside like an afterimage burned into his memory: black instead of white, light instead of dark, all ripples of motion and leather and arrogance to match the missing pieces that he’s been trying to mend. A flash of silver and Cloud ducks low under the first warped slice, catches the second with a harsh pant and the flat of his blade when he refuses to give way.

Deliberate over the coil of their swords together, “I came for you”.

And Cloud falters; his sword sinks and sways in his hands—a single misstep in their dance that’s quickly brushed aside with another lusty ring of steel to keep cadence. Again, he thinks. Again, and he locks his arms with the next swing; the force of it beats through his chest. Sephiroth gauges that new strength with the flex of his hand and flings Cloud back, up, and _that_ he feels through his entire self. Momentum hauls him to the side of Midgar’s wreckage, and Cloud takes the strain of it brutally before springing off the concrete walls. He’s greeted halfway with a curve of light and air, and Sephiroth is a series of snapshots, one after the other, all blurred and overexposed in a reel of movement that loops over and over. The wind bites into his eyes and drags him back as Cloud ever tries to go after them all.

A vicious strike of weapons and Cloud is breathless, aching, as he keeps his guard madly spiraling in a dome around him. There, from below. Parry and swipe up. Left. Strike and counter strike. He slices forward in a jerk of hard muscle, but only the drifting air around them takes note.

Emotion, fervent and unyielding, simmers higher with each blow that doesn’t quite hit.

Smooth as the film of oil on water, the tip of the Masamune traces the curves of his lashes—“ _What I gave to you, I can take away”_ —and curls back to cleave him through. Cloud skirts the border of the elegant blade, and thinks of what he’s lost, what he has, and what he wants.

And Cloud takes those thoughts, cherishes them, fans them higher with his bottled memories that quiver to burst, and he nudges open the locks of the First Tsurugi.

Inhale, exhale.

He lunges.

-o0o-

“Do you want forgiveness?”

Sephiroth’s voice is liquid silk, and Cloud shudders, tries to tug off the cloying strands that wrap around him; he resorts to the edge of hardened metal when he fails. His blow is shrugged aside with the lenient flutter of a wing.

“Cloud.” Insistent, gloved hands curve to his sides, splay across the arch of his back. Sephiroth slips forward, lean bulk in the slack ring of his arms, and draws him up like they could both belong in the Promised Land. Heavy in his grip, his sword wavers and slips away, forgotten. Cloud lifts his face to feel the brush of white bangs against his cheeks, and the negative of a remembrance is born. “Would you… “ Inquiry painted in fine strokes against the delicate skin of his throat.“… like my forgiveness?”

Silence. He breathes. “More than anything.”

“That’s good, Cloud.” Sephiroth’s smile is a slash across his perfect face; Cloud closes his failing eyes when it descends, triumphant, and seals shut his own gasping mouth. Fade back, another empty place inside is filled, smoothed down with care, and replaced with a larger absence. Lips pale and unkind kiss at his eyelids.

And he’s clinging at the empty air, falling, falling. His world narrows in, dark, grey, as Cloud chokes when he hits the ground. Pain, confusion; he seeks the other with tired, desperate movements.

Sephiroth gazes down with indifference, every welded fragment the god before his supplicant.

“My puppet…” Affectionately, “You’ll never have it.”

The beat of a raven wing—Cloud’s vision bursts to clarity for a fraction of his pulse, but all that’s left is a remnant, broken and bleeding in a thousand places, softly dying with all the hits that truly did manage to land. Gentle patters, then the stronger plops of rain against his curled form, and even that gradually smears away. Drops of water soothe the cry in his arm, but they leak, burn into his eyes and he’s forced to squeeze them tight.

When the rain finally stops and the smell of fire, soot, and dust is washed away, Cloud tentatively pries the thin, salted membrane of his eyelids apart.

His eyes open to his world of nothing, and Cloud despairs.

-o0o-


End file.
